Raphael Read online

  A most perfect asphyxiation.

  Raphael was suddenly consumed by the need to begin his hunt. The memory of Gavin’s strangulation had awakened his senses, stirred to life the demonic beast that owned his blackened soul. The minute the final bell rang out, he rushed back to the change room to hang up his robe and made for the stairs. The winding of the stone steps only made the kindle of anticipation flare more strongly. The twisting, circular movements made his breath come in sharp puffs of strained inhales and exhales.

  Raphael stopped when he reached the Nave. He opened the file on the vast wooden table at which the Fallen ate their meals. The bitch’s face in a photograph was the first thing he saw. Angela Bankfoot. A slim, tall blonde, pumped full of silicone, Botox, and fillers. But he didn’t gave a shit about her face or even her figure. It was her neck his eyes focused on. His head tilted to the side. Her neck was of adequate size. Not slender enough to make it the most exciting target yet, but sufficient to make the kill sweet enough to sate the darkness that roared inside his heart.

  Raphael’s lip curled in disgust when he looked at her hair. Peroxide-blond hair that fell to the tops of her shoulders. Not as long as he craved. Raphael’s hands balled into fists on the tabletop, his eyes closed, and he breathed deeply though his rabid disappointment. Pulling himself together, he refocused on the file. He smirked when he saw where the bitch liked to go for pleasure.

  A place Raphael knew all too well.

  Angela Bankfoot liked fucked-up play. Unluckily for her, so did Raphael. The bitch had no idea what was coming.

  “Well?” Sela asked.

  Raphael stood, and his brothers gathered around him. At least, five of them did. Gabriel would still be in the Tomb, no doubt praying to God to forgive his soul for giving Raphael the mission. The self-hatred would be eating him alive, the agony of being judge and juror of someone’s soul.

  It was a fool’s move. God had no place in their lives, in the manor. He’d abandoned them all a long time ago, letting his agents of sin fuck them and hit them, making them more fucked up than they’d ever been before.

  A hand waved in front of his face. When Raphael’s vision cleared, it was to see Bara and his flame-red hair. His green eyes were alight with excitement. “Good target?”

  Raphael pointed at the photograph of Bankfoot.

  A hand landed on his shoulder. Sela. “Too bad she isn’t the one, brother,” he said. Sela leaned in closer for a better look. His long brown hair fell on the picture and, for a moment, made it look as though Bankfoot’s hair dropped all the way below her big, fake tits. Raphael hissed at the sight. Bara smirked, knowing exactly what had made him temporarily lose his shit.

  “Maybe next time.” Sela stood back, moving his hair, ripping the fantasy away. He studied the photograph. “But she’d be easy to recreate. All that surgery makes for an easy death mask.” His eyes flared. Sela made masks of all his victims. Hung them in his room, so they would look down at him as he slept. “And those rubber lips would feel wicked good around my cock.” He shrugged. “At least until I cut them from her face and put them in a jar.”

  “Where will you find her?” Diel asked. The black-haired, blue-eyed brother pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. His head twitched every few minutes, the tell that he was fighting for control of the killer inside. The part of him that would throw him into a killing spree. His collar buzzed, the telltale sign that Gabriel had it switched to automatic control. The minute Diel moved too fast, pulse increasing, feet picking up, switching from a walk into a run, it would activate, shooting in excess of fifty-thousand volts into his body and bringing him to his knees.

  Raphael went to reply, but he was interrupted.

  “Her blood would be vile.”

  The men all looked to Michael, who rarely spoke. If he ever did, it was mostly to Raphael. For whatever reason, Michael had always been more drawn to him than to the others. Michael’s ice-blue eyes showed nothing but repulsion toward the target. He pushed back his black hair from his eyes. “All that Botox and shit takes the refinement from the flavor.” Michael flicked his tongue along his sharpened teeth, along the fangs he’d had made that were now permanently attached into his gums. Michael shrugged, then addressed Raphael, meeting his gaze. “If you choked her hard enough, you could always make her eyes bleed.” Michael’s nostrils flared. “That would be a sight to see.”

  Diel turned the file around to face him. “Sex dungeons,” he said, amused. “Your favorite place to reside, Raphe. Apart from her hair, it’s what you like most, yeah?”

  Raphael nodded. “And she frequents my favorite club too.” Raphael smiled and met each of his brothers’ eyes. “The most extreme and fucked-up toys to play with.”

  “Wicked good,” Diel replied, smiling coldly too.

  “She needs to be killed slowly.” Uriel moved closer to Raphael to see the picture in more detail. His voice had dropped into a low growl. “The whore is in love with herself. All that shitty work.” His mouth curled in disgust. “Murder the bitch over hours. Make the cunt scream until her voice gives out.” Uriel rubbed the spot over his upper chest, above the Fallen’s brand that they all wore with pride. Uriel’s body was littered with piercings and tattoos, marring every inch of his skin but for his neck and face. He was tracing one of the many words he had inked into his skin, the biggest one. The one that read “UGLY.” It was ironic; Uriel’s face was anything but. Uriel’s gray eyes met Raphael’s gaze. “When you’ve done it, you come and tell me how loud she wailed. How much you fucking made her pay. I need to know. I need to know every second of her pain, or I won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Always,” Raphael said. And he would. One of the biggest pleasures they shared was the retelling of their kills. Every detail, every feeling the murders elicited . . . how their victims begged and pleaded to be spared, to be given mercy.

  Mercy was never awarded by the Fallen.

  No one was ever spared.

  There was no goodness in their souls. Tears and cries rolled off their consciences like raindrops; protests and pleas made them smile.

  Raphael closed the file. “I’ll see you all later.” Raphael walked through the vast mansion and upstairs to his own rooms. He crossed the bedroom and went through the hidden door in the vintage-wallpapered wall and into his private room. He headed straight to the large wall that was filled with pictures. Pictures of his kills, taken minutes after death, eyes wide open and faces frozen in a perpetual state of quietus. Graffitied words written in red and black expressed what each victim had done. How they had screamed. How they had clawed at his skin . . . how they had choked on their final breaths.

  His gaze drifted to his left. To the one wall that was adorned with a gilded gold frame, a table of unlit candles, and an empty vase awaiting the single rose that would fill it and sit center stage.

  A heavy pang of disappointment hit. He clenched his fist by his side.

  Not yet, he thought. Not yet . . .

  Pinning the picture of his next victim to the north wall of the room—his planning space—he began to plot. As Raphael stared at Angela Bankfoot, his desires for how she would die grew darker and darker. She wasn’t who he wanted. For that, she would pay. Raphael focused on crafting the seduction techniques: the whens, the hows, the methods by which he would tempt her to her eventual demise.

  A while later, Michael strode into the room. He had a shot glass of blood in his hands, as he did every night. Raphael knew it was Michael’s own, extracted from his veins only minutes before. Drops of blood still stained his wrist, his black shirt barely disguising the wound. Michael sat on the chair on the corner, dipping his finger into the glass and circling his lips until they were painted a deep shade of crimson red. Around and around his finger went as he lapped at the liquid, the movement staining the skin around his mouth.

  “When?” Michael asked, never taking his eyes away from his blood. As always, his shirt was open to his navel, and the vial he always wore sat over the Fallen�
��s insignia that was burned into his skin. Ever since they moved into the manor, Michael had started coming to Raphael’s room each evening. He never stayed the night, just remained in Raphael’s company until he went to bed. They wouldn’t always speak; Michael rarely did. But he always turned up.

  They had lived in Purgatory for years. Years of torture, with only each other to rely on for support. When they escaped Father Quinn’s clutches and Gabriel gave them each their own rooms, it was too foreign for them all. For the first year they had all slept in the same room, together, on the hard floor of the Tomb.

  The damp, the lack of windows and light, the stagnant air, the cold . . . it had been all they had known for so long. Even Gabriel had joined them, unable to sleep himself. As the years passed, they slowly began to gain independence. But they congregated each night at dinner and, more often than not, many other times in the day. It was brotherhood in its strongest form. They didn’t know how to live without one another—they didn’t care to find out.

  Michael had been the youngest of the Fallen next to Raphael. The two of them were naturally drawn together. Even ten years later it was still the case.

  “I begin tomorrow,” Raphael said, answering Michael’s question. He stepped back and glared at Bankfoot’s picture. It stared back at him, her blown-up red lips offending his golden eyes. Raphael took hold of the string on his finger and loosened it, letting his finger find momentary relief, only to once again wrap it around the base, then the knuckle, up to the nail . . . over and over again. “First, I will make contact with her, capture her attention. Then I’ll lure her in.” Raphael felt his breathing deepen as he envisioned the play. He thought of the club, the darkness and smoke that filled every part of the space. The smell of sex and cum, and the wooden contraptions in the open for everyone to see.

  Raphael smirked as he glared at her face.

  The road to death would begin tomorrow.

  He could hardly wait.

  Chapter Two

  It was a den of sin.

  Father Murray fought to keep a hold on his anger as he looked around. He stood in the corner of the room, dressed in black slacks and a black shirt. He had shed his red dog collar and robes for the mission, but his rosary lay around his neck, a symbol of his faith. He could almost feel the cross burning his skin in revulsion as he took in the sight of a woman locked in a metal cage, her legs forced apart as her sinful lover pushed sex toy after sex toy inside her. Clamps bit into her nipples, a chain leading down and clamping her clit.

  Father Murray tried to tear his eyes away from her face as she cried out in ecstasy for everyone to see and hear, putting on a show. But his gaze locked on her when she threw her head back and bared her long, slender neck. Murray felt the familiar stirrings in his groin. He gritted his teeth in self-disgust, snarling against his own weakness, against the darkness that lay in waiting, readying to strike, deep in his soul.

  Turning toward the black-painted wall behind him, sinking into the shadows, he curled his fingers and slammed his fist against his cock, eyes screwing shut at the thundering blast of pain that splintered up his spine. The shooting agony crippled him. He flattened his hand against the wall as he breathed through the burning, the aching. He could barely stand. Father Murray pictured the evil that had once controlled him finding its way back to the surface. He couldn’t let it happen. Not again. He could never go back. Not now that he had been brought into the light, into the way of the brotherhood.

  The priest punched between his legs again and again until he almost dropped to his knees. The sting of tobacco smoke burned his nostrils, and the smell of sex and immorality that infiltrated the air clogged his lungs with wickedness. Disgust sailed through his every cell, abhorrence for those polluting the world with their vice. Only when his hardened penis had deflated under his concrete fist did he turn back to challenge the sickening depravity. His erection might have dissipated, but the rage and anger at such unrighteous acts remained as strong.

  Even stronger.

  Father Murray’s eyes locked on the woman again as she was released from the metal cage and brought into her lover’s embrace. The man slammed his mouth against hers and thrust his fingers into her overused pussy. They were dressed in scandalous leather outfits that did little to conceal their bodies. Father Murray’s lip curled in disgust. The man pulled back and made for the bar. His slut’s cheeks were flushed, and her lips were swollen from the claiming kiss. She had red marks littering her body like the witch she was. Bruises and gashes from whips and chains and whatever else the male sinner had used on her flesh.

  Flesh that belonged to the Lord, not her. Flesh that she was defiling, making a mockery of.

  As Father Murray sipped on his water, he noticed the whore was walking to the bathrooms. His eyes tracked her across the room, then scanned the club for any sign that someone else would follow. But the heathens were too busy fornicating to notice or care. His heart kicked into a sprint; she was alone in the bathroom. He squeezed the bottle of water until it was crushed beneath his grasp.

  Father Murray’s skin burned as he watched the door of the bathroom. His muscles tensed so tightly they felt as though they would snap. His eyes misted with red . . . and then he was moving. He let the Lord fill his senses and gave over control.

  Do with me what you will. Use me as your vessel to destroy the evil walking this earth.

  As quick as a shadow, Father Murray turned the knob of the bathroom door and walked inside. The whore stood in front of the mirror, wiping a cloth along her rancid pussy. She turned her eyes his way. What first seemed like shock at the interruption turned into heated interest.

  “Can I help you?” Her voice was all seduction. The voice of the devil, Father Murray thought. A living temptation trying to sway me from the path.

  It would only make her cleansing all the more powerful.

  Father Murray licked his lips and pushed his jaw-length dark hair from his eyes. He saw the whore’s eyes flare. That was the reason he was picked for these missions. Father Quinn had told him God gave him his looks and body for this very reason. To ensnare impure sluts and send them to the depths of hell where they belonged and would dwell for eternity.

  Silently, Father Murray turned, giving the slightest nudge of his head in instruction for her to follow. He didn’t look back, and the thumping music from the speakers in the club meant he couldn’t hear her high-heeled feet on the floor. But he knew she would follow. It was God’s will.

  These missions were the Brethren’s very reason for existing.

  Father Murray exited out of the back door and down the winding fire escape stairs. A metal door plunged him into the darkness of the alley outside. He stopped against the wall and waited. He smirked when the fire door opened and the slut walked through. He watched as her eyes squinted in the dark, searching for him. She smiled when she caught sight of his intense gaze fixed on her. “You like privacy, huh?” she asked, coming to stand before him. “Not into public displays?” She smiled. “You should try it. There’s nothing like all eyes on you as you come.”

  The whore ran her long fingernail down Father Murray’s chest. Her touch did nothing to him. There was no stirring in his cock, no satisfaction from her attention. The bitch had no idea what turned him on.

  She would soon.

  She dropped her hands to the fly of his pants and undid his zipper. Her tongue snaked out and licked along her too-white teeth. The whore was a demon wrapped in attractive female flesh.

  But she wouldn’t make this man of God sin.

  Father Murray grabbed the top of the whore’s arms, spun her, and smacked her back against the wall. An innocent soul would feel fear, dislike of the rough contact. But not this slut. She smiled, enjoying the pain Father Murray’s aggressive grip brought.

  Heathen. A heathen who deserves to die.

  “Are you gonna fuck me or what?” she whispered in his ear. The whore lifted her hand and flipped her hair back over her shoulder, aiming for seductiveness.
Father Murray knew the movement was a message from the Lord. An invitation to strike, to do his work of ridding the world of sinners.

  Father Murray smiled; the whore smiled back. He didn’t bother to tuck his cock back into his pants. Instead, he ran his hands over her hell-created curves, listening to her moan. His fingers roved over her small waist and up over her large breasts. Finally, his hands rested on either side of her neck. Father Murray stared right into the whore’s eyes. Leaning in close, he whispered, “You are a blight on the world. You have no place on this earth . . . and I shall be the holy warrior to send you back to the second level of hell.” Her eyes only had a second to flare with fear before Father Murray began to squeeze. The whore’s mouth dropped open as she quickly became starved of breath.

  Father Murray hadn’t been aroused by the whore’s touch. But now, with his hands ridding her of life, his dick was hard and throbbing with the need to release. He panted as the whore’s body began to fight back. But she was too weak; he was too strong. He pressed his wide chest against her tits and pushed her hard into the wall. The friction of her skin against his erection only heightened his excitement. Father Murray rocked against the front of her bare pussy, his hands tightening and tightening until the whore’s eyes began to bulge. She clawed at his chest. But the battle, the pain she was trying to inflict on his pure soul, only made his hold around her neck tighten.